


Fantasy

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Incest, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's fantasy involves Sherlock wearing a Harrow school uniform, and being fourteen years old.  Not that either of those things bear any resemblance to reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock is lying on his stomach, arms bent under the pillows, when the first muted grumble reaches Mycroft's ears. Mycroft, already sitting up, reading the paper, ignores him.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock manages to make his brother's name sound like an accusation.  
“Yes, dear?”  
“It can't be that important.”  
“No, I suppose not.”  
“Then stop it. The FT will still be there in an hour.”  
“I'm sure it will. Oh, did you want me to stop reading?” Mycroft's tone is deliberately bland.

Sherlock rolls over to face his brother, glowering. Mycroft turns the page.

“Hmm, share prices have fallen. Again, I might add. Hardly a surprise though.”

Sherlock turns his back to his brother again. He fusses with the heaped pillows, tugs angrily at the bed covers and finally settles down again, flat on his stomach, with a loud huff of annoyance. Mycroft smiles to himself and quietly sets the paper aside.

“Mycroft...”  
“Yes, darling?”  
“Touch me.” Sherlock all but whispers.

Mycroft, always more than willing to indulge, eases himself down, under the covers. He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, and reaches across to let his fingers curve over his brother's hip. Sherlock sighs in contentment.

“It means something.” Sherlock says, at length.  
“Does it?”  
“Control, I suppose.”

For some reason, Sherlock particularly enjoys the sensation of Mycroft's hands on his hips. Mycroft doesn't think too much about it, beyond the obvious intimacy, the implication of physical immobilisation and nearness to genital framing that the gesture requires. Sherlock, obviously, has been thinking far too much about it.

“If someone...”  
“Hmm?” Mycroft prompts, more for his brother's benefit than because he's all that interested in what he's going to hear.  
“You know this already.”  
“Of course I do.”

Sherlock laughs softly, rolling onto his side, back still to Mycroft. Mycroft moves in closer, pressing their bodies together. His hand tightens on Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock's hand coves his.

“Do you ever think about this? About... us?”  
“Do I worry about the reason behind it all, you mean?”  
“Yes. Do you?”  
“Hardly. Every human action can be explained by what precedes it, not that that excuses it in the slightest.”  
“Do we need an excuse?” Sherlock's voice has dropped to a whisper.

Mycroft lets out a sigh. There lies the crux of the matter. There is no escaping it, the fact that they are brothers, by virtue of both nature and nurture, and, as such, ought to have no business being sexually intimate together. Not that Mycroft lets it bother him. He has little use for the notion of abomination, and even less for being considered one. Sherlock, on the other hand, is surprisingly vulnerable to rejection.

“It is my fault, after all.” Mycroft begins, calmly.  
“Your fault? Mycroft, I-”  
“Hush, darling. Let me explain.”  
“Are you going to tell me that you're older and more worldly, and should have known better?” Which amuses Sherlock at least.  
“More perverse, my dear. A thousand times more perverse.”

Sherlock laughs, his grip tightening on Mycroft's hand. Of course, one reaction may well be contrary to the other. Mycroft hears the fragility in Sherlock's humour, readily enough.

“I imagine that it began just after you'd turned fourteen.”  
Sherlock's laughter dies in a surprised splutter.  
“Though really, I'm sure it ought to have been when _I_ was fourteen instead. Whatever happens to a boy during the summer he's fourteen will mark him for life, so I've heard.”

Mycroft untangles their fingers and slides his arm around Sherlock's waist, holding his brother's body firmly against his own.

“I suppose I caught a glimpse of you dressing. In shirt and school tie already, socks pulled up, maybe even already wearing your blazer.”  
“Why would I have my blazer on already if my trousers were around my ankles?” Sherlock grumbles.  
“Hush, dear, this is my fantasy. You're not allowed to interrupt.”  
Somehow Sherlock manages to bite back his snigger, though trying to swallow it with a cough is less than subtle.  
“You'd be pulling your trousers up, you'd get them just over your knees before you realised I was watching.”  
“Pervert.”  
“Precisely. And pervert that I am, I'd step into the room, closing the door firmly behind me.”  
Sherlock snorts. “Do I actually get to pull my trousers up or do I just drop them for your benefit?”  
“You don't get a chance to. I've pushed you down, onto the bed, and tugged them off you before you even know what's happening.”  
“That's rather lacking in detail.”  
“You're wearing brown socks and prim, white, little underpants, that leave nothing to the imagination.”  
Sherlock snorts.  
“You'll just have to fill in the rest yourself. Call it an exercise for the listener.”  
“I suppose...” Sherlock begins slowly. “I might be too shocked to tell you to stop, or push you away.”  
“Oh, yes. Quite shocked and at a definite loss for words. You can't even muster up a decent protest when I unbutton your shirt and loosen your tie.”  
“You leave my tie on?”  
“I rather like the contrast of black silk against your skin.”  
“Black with...?” Suspiciously.  
“Just plain black, dear.”  
“And I suppose my jacket would be dark blue as well, would it?”  
“Darling, do listen. I am _trying_ to share an intimate moment with you.”  
“Of course you are. So... I'm laid out on the bed, underneath you, wearing some _other_ school's uniform.”  
“Not that you have time to think about that either.” Mycroft interrupts. “Because I slip my hand into your underwear just as it looks like you've gathered your wits enough to protest.”

This time Sherlock doesn't respond verbally. He wriggles a little in Mycroft's embrace, pressing back against him, a little harder than before. Mycroft's responding chuckle wouldn't be out of place in a Victorian melodrama.

“I rather enjoy the helpless little noises you make when I have my hand around your cock.”  
“Do- do you?” Somewhat breathlessly.  
“Oh, yes. There's something unutterably delightful about seeing you like that. Whimpering, writhing. Completely and utterly helpless. And _mine_ , Sherlock. Completely and utterly mine.”  
“Please, Mycroft...”

The hitched breath that follows is all the encouragement Mycroft really needs, though it's gratifying to hear Sherlock beg for a change. It's easy then, to change their positions so that Sherlock ends up on his back, wrists pressed back against the pillow, caught in a firm grip, pinned beneath the weight of Mycroft's body. Sherlock's submission is always wonderfully tantalising after all, and Mycroft is certain to make full and extensive use of it.

 

Later, Mycroft lies on his back, with Sherlock half sprawled over him, considering the various elements of his fantasy. In reality he's not entirely sure that he can remember a fourteen year old Sherlock all that clearly. He does quite distinctly recall Sherlock at seventeen, throwing a fit over being disciplined and turning up in dirtied school uniform, with only his school books to his name, on Mycroft's doorstep one morning. Not that anything had happened between them at that point. Mycroft had made the appropriate phone calls, while Sherlock had sat, sulking, in the bath for over an hour. There had been the issue of Sherlock crawling into his bed that night, but they'd done nothing more than sleep, Sherlock's head resting on his brother's chest and Mycroft merely offering comfort. The next morning Sherlock had gone back to school anyway, muttering that the other boys were stupid, as he departed.

Sherlock stirs, making a few small, odd noises as he does so.  
“I hope you're not going to hawk up an owl pellet.”  
“No, don't think so.” Comes the sleepy reply.  
Mycroft smiles at the absurdity of it. He's always been fond of owls anyway.  
“I remembered.”  
“Did you?”  
“You're not, you know.”  
“I didn't think so.”  
“Twenty-four is most certainly old enough to decide who I'm in love with.”

The sharp catch of breath indicates that Sherlock's just realised what he's said. Mycroft covers Sherlock's hand with his own.

“And thirty-one is old enough to know better. Which I do.”  
“Do you?”  
“Always, my darling.”

Mycroft listens to Sherlock's breathing even out as the other falls asleep again. Eventually, inevitably, everything with unravel, but not just yet. Mycroft is already anticipating the recriminations that will follow, the enforced separation, the fury and tears. This is, of course, the path such a relationship must follow. He will be prepared for it. He has, after all, the strength to ride out the storm, and, when the dust of battle settles, when Sherlock has used up all his excuses, Mycroft will simply begin his conquest afresh.

**Author's Note:**

> "Every human action can be explained by what precedes it, but that does not excuse it."  
> \- Gavin De Becker ( _The Gift of Fear and Other Survival Signs that Protect us from Violence_ )
> 
> “Whatever happens to a boy during the summer he's fourteen will mark him for life.”  
> \- _Lolita_ (1997 adaptation)


End file.
